It's the Journey There That Matters
by TheAgonyofBlank
Summary: You impress even yourself with the amount of surprise you manage to inject into your tone at seeing her, and you know by the smile that reaches her eyes that she buys it.


Title: It's the Journey There (That Matters)  
>Fandom: <em>Grey's Anatomy.<br>_Pairing: Meredith/Addison.  
>Prompt: "I can sit and listen Or I can make you scream/ Kiss it and make it better/ Just put your trust in me" ("Oh My God" by Pink and Peaches).  
>Rating: PG-13.<br>Words: 2045.  
>Author's NotesDisclaimer: Written for mammothluv for the Support Stacie Author Auction. I'd like to thank mysensitiveside and demoka for beta-ing – you guys are awesome! :)

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><p><em>i can sit and listen<em>

It's a bright and sunny day in Los Angeles – clear skies, perfect temperature, and a light breeze. Basically, it's one of those days that your younger, more fickle self would have hated, back when your life revolved around Derek and hospital gossip, because – well. It would have felt as though the world was laughing in your face for having such a miserable life when it was so bright and sunny outside. It isn't five years ago, though, and now the New You actually likes this weather. It's a stark contrast to the usual gloom of drizzly Seattle, and it's _nice_.

You don't know why, but you don't expect to see her here.

At first, you think you must be mistaken – there are more redheads in the world than just her, of course, and what are the chances of you bumping into her in such a large city? On such a long stretch of beach? But you recognize the long red hair and the long, purposeful stride, and there's really nothing you can say to her without making everything awkward and forced – so you turn to leave before you can embarrass yourself, or her, or the both of you.

"Meredith?"

Her voice hasn't changed after all these years – it's not like you had _expected_ it to or anything, but somehow it only seems right for a person to sound different after you haven't seen her for a while. She sounds the same, though, her tone curious (and maybe even a little amused?) yet knowing all at the same time, and you can't help but wonder how she manages to do that. You also don't know why she's even talking to you, but then again, she's always been friendly after the whole misunderstanding – you recall the awkward hug she gave you years ago, when she thought you and Derek were still together when you… weren't.

"Addison! Hi!"

You impress even yourself with the amount of surprise you manage to inject into your tone at seeing her, and you know by the smile that reaches her eyes that she buys it. If it's good enough for her, it's good enough for you. You make small talk, all forced smiles (that aren't as forced as you'd like) and breathy laughter (the only kind you've ever had), catching each other up on the latest news – she works at another hospital now, part-time, spending the rest of her time in a private clinic, and, well, Seattle Grace is the same as always – until you're waving goodbye to each other in the early evening sunset, and you realize that you've just exchanged numbers with her and agreed to dinner next week.

And as you walk away, soaking in the remaining sunlight and your own bewilderment, you realize that you're actually looking forward to it.

_or i can make you scream_

You finally get to see Addison's house on your fifth date together six weeks later. (You've stopped trying to convince yourself that you weren't going on dates by your third dinner together.) It's nice inside, simple and clean, and it has a perfect view of the beach – and seriously, it's everything you could want in a house in Los Angeles. She cooks you dinner that night (evidently, a skill she picked up recently) – turkey and green beans – and you help yourself to the wine. Conversation is a lot easier than it was when you first saw her at the beach all those weeks ago, and you feel relaxed.

You help her with the dishes when you're both done, and you can't help but giggle when you think of just how _domestic_ all of this is.

She glances at you then, arching a delicate eyebrow, and you have no doubt that she's wondering what in the world you find so amusing. But there's something different about the way she's looking at you now – different from all those other times before, and it makes something churn at the pit of your stomach. You laugh now, nervously, and return to washing the dishes, and soon enough (though not quite) you've found something else to talk about, to laugh at.

Even then, you can still feel her gaze on you.

By the end of the evening, you're feeling a little restless and antsy, and you think she should just _stop looking at you like that_. She doesn't, though, and you don't tell her to stop. You think there must be something in that. Midnight comes soon enough, and as you stand from the couch to leave, you feel a light tug at your waist, and then suddenly you're lying directly on top of her, much closer to her than you've ever been in the past.

And as you lean forward to capture her lips, you realize that you've never done this before. Kissed her, that is. And now that you've done it – are doing it – it seems more than a little ridiculous. Because Addison? Is a really good kisser. And kissing Addison? Is one of the best things you've done since moving to Los Angeles. Maybe even one of the best things you've done in five years. You kind of wish that you'd done this earlier.

"Meredith."

Her voice breaks into your reverie.

"Hmm?"

"Stop thinking."

You feel her smile against your skin, feel her fingers slip lower and lower, and as your kisses grow more frantic and your hips press upwards and against her, you realize that you are only too happy to oblige with her request.

_kiss it and make it better_

It's darker today – there's a light drizzle, washing the streets and everything around you, and you can't help but wonder if it's a _sign_ of some kind; a sort of bad omen for the evening you have ahead of you. You don't like to admit it, but these things have always been important to you. You don't like going through with something if it doesn't seem like you have luck, or fate, or whatever it is, on your side.

And tonight? Definitely does not seem like a good night.

But it's five minutes till the time you've both agreed to meet up, and even though you're starting to second-guess yourself, you know that canceling on Addison right now won't do anything but make you feel guilty later on.

You've known ever since you picked up the phone two nights ago that it was a bad idea, but you'd gone ahead and called her anyway.

You don't really know _why_ you did it; just a semi-drunken night alone, you suppose. And when you realized, at twelve midnight, that you were single and bored and _lonely_, calling her was the first thing you could think of. And before you could really think things through properly, before you could confirm (to yourself) that this was a terrible idea, the phone was ringing on the other end, and after three rings she picked up.

Now you wonder if she had known that you were a little tipsy when you called her. Then again, you couldn't have been _that_ far gone if you remembered to show up.

She's a few minutes late (fifteen, to be exact), but the point is that she arrives.

"Hey," she says as she slips her coat off, lightly shaking free a few droplets of rain and folding it in half across her lap. "Sorry I'm late."

You clutch your cooling coffee, shake your head, and smile – a little forced. "It's fine."

"Is everything all right? When you called the other night, I thought it might be about Derek-"

She pauses and places a hand on yours, and you look up at her, a strange warmth filling you as you stare back at her for a moment before you remember to think.

"No," you tell her with absolute certainty, though your voice is feebler than you'd like. "It's not Derek."

But as the words leave your mouth, you realize how true they are, and how _happy_ you are that, for the first time in years, it's not about Derek at all.

She squeezes your hand gently, comfortingly, and you smile again – but this time you mean it.

_just put your trust in me_

You've always been the type to take things slow; you don't like being rushed into things and being made to make decisions in a split second.

In some ways it's ironic that you're now a doctor, making split-second decisions that could save a person's life.

Yet somehow that is still vastly different from making decisions that pertain to your own personal life.

It's not the same, you think, knowing whether or not a vein should be avoided versus whether or not to move in with your girlfriend of three years.

She knows that you get nervous when she mentions anything permanent between the both of you, and maybe that's why she tells you to take as long as you need to think about it.

"You're already over at my place so often; why not move in?" she suggests, kissing her way down your body and ignoring the soft noises escaping from your lips. Somehow this strikes you as colossally unfair; you'll say anything at this point. "Just think about it."

Sometimes you think she _knows_ – she knows that you're a commitment-phobe, that you think anything that's made official will go down the drain – and this makes you question why she brings up the issue in the first place. (Even though she does make a very good point.)

But Addison is Addison, not Derek, and Addison will say what she thinks, even if she knows you don't want to hear it.

A week passes and she still doesn't say anything to you regarding the subject.

Another week, and still nothing.

You don't mind, because you hope that she's forgotten about it.

But for what it's worth, you do think about it. You _are thinking_ about it.

You think, you ponder, you reflect – on all the things that could go well (a few), and on all the things that could go wrong (a whole lot).

By the third week, you've made up your mind.

You try to tell her all week, but there's never a good time – she's busy with patients, you're busy with patients – and finally, you think it may just be Fated for you never to tell her.

But then you find her in the kitchen that Saturday morning, both of you gloriously patient-free, and she has the Los Angeles Times spread out in front of her as she bites into a slice of toast.

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them.

"I've decided: Yes."

She looks at you, confusion evident on her face, but you chime in before she can speak.

"I'll move in with you."

This, of course, is big news. Or, it _should_ be big news because you've taken so long to think about this, and you're pretty sure that she's just as surprised as you are that you've decided to move in.

But all she does is smile at you – in the way she does when she's _really_ happy about something – and hold up the plate of toast in front of her.

"I made you some toast."

And you expected a better reaction out of her – maybe some sort of celebration. But you know that she knows that you don't like people to make a big deal out of things, so maybe this is what she's doing. Not making a big deal out of things.

You take a seat at the table opposite her and help yourself to some toast.

When you're done, she takes the plate from you, but not before kissing you gently, just once, on the lips.

"I'm glad you decided to move in," she says, and then she kisses you again, this time on your temple.

She smiles again, a small smile that has the corners of her lips curving upward, and you smile back.

And as she walks away to put the dishes away, the traces of her smile still fresh in your mind's eye, you realize that you feel no apprehension, no worry about moving in.

Just a sense of happiness.

Like you've finally found where you ought to be.


End file.
